


Inquiline in Adagio

by CraftyDemonite



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Slice of Life, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CraftyDemonite/pseuds/CraftyDemonite
Summary: His brother just didn’t seem the type for markings - for painful flourishes rendered with ink and needles on naked skin – and it’s bewildering how he managed to overlook something so obvious and extensive. AU.
Relationships: Earl of Lemongrab & Earl of Lemongrab 2
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Inquiline in Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> LG1 = Limoncello “Cello”  
> LG2 = Meringue
> 
> This story takes place in an AU. Definitions included in the end notes. Thank you.

“Is that new?”

The question slips free accidentally, blearily, groggily, and Meringue feels guilty as he sees his brother flinch in the half-light of the reading lamp and hunch his bare shoulders. _Anxious. Defensive._

He didn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean to say “is that new?” because such a question is intrusive and pointed and Cello prefers things to remain as they are instead of suddenly changing into something new and different when he seemingly wasn’t paying attention. Maybe that came with being the eldest; sticking to your own ways and such. Being mired in them in Cello’s case.

Now, what Meringue _had_ meant to ask was “should I come with?”, which was gentler and more reassuring. An offer to stay together rather than be pulled apart at this globforsaken hour of the morning because mother called with some ‘emergency’ that she insisted couldn’t wait until sunrise. Meringue didn’t quite believe that whatever it was was more important than a good night’s rest along with an equally good breakfast, but maybe it _was_ serious given how troubled Cello looked when speaking to mother on the phone and how Meringue’s usual complaints and arguments – _it’s too early for this, the bed is too cold without you, the night will be lonely if you’re not beside me_ – did nothing to sway his brother’s decision on the matter.

Regardless, he doubts mother’s word and, again, it doesn’t stop “is that new?” from being the appropriate question at the moment, what with his brother at the armoire getting dressed and himself still curled under the bed sheets and duvet watching him, since his brother didn’t seem one for _markings._ Ink and needles. Purposeful scarring. Branding. Painful and quite permanent flourishes and designs and decorations made to oneself rather than placed upon a canvas or mural where it could be respectfully appreciated.

So he can’t help but be surprised to see that Cello even _has one_ – a marking of sorts – and his surprise grows twofold a how _extensive_ it is.

It’s not colored, just black etched onto golden yellow rind, and the depiction being of a tree at least makes more sense than the idea of stuck-up Earl Limoncello having a _tattoo_ of all things. He always did have an affinity for fauna after all, despite the fact that he was inexplicably quite lousy at gardening unless the plant in question was naturally hardy, but that didn’t stop him from naming most of his camels, past and present, after flowers and herbs. Meringue didn’t mind that last part and honestly preferred the first part outside of him having to make sure Cello only looked and didn’t touch certain areas of the gardens where he could really do some damage without meaning to. Caring for plants was Meringue’s domain and a talent he was immeasurably proud of. Something all his own that made him special.

But in spite of all his expertise and natural green thumb, he’s at a loss identifying what species the tree curling and twisting across his brother’s back is even supposed to _be._ Citrus would have made perfect sense, and if not that, then one of mother’s cotton candy trees would have been equally acceptable, not something so gnarled and _strange_ with roots laid down near his brother’s right hip, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers.

At least the silence hanging in the air between them speaks to the innocence of Meringue’s question and puts Cello at ease knowing he’s not about to be bombarded with inquiries and accusations he may not have answers for. The tension leaves his shoulders and it’s interesting seeing the outlined knobby branches and thick canopy of leaves – blossoms? Are those flowers? – shift smoothly with the movement of his rind over the bones and muscles of his shoulder blades and upper back.

“What, this?” he asks, reaching back to press a hand to the stylized trunk that curves towards his spine, “No, I have had it for a long time. Longer than you’ve been around. And before you say anything else,” his brother turns enough to give him a withering look, “No, it is not a tattoo.”

Meringue frowns back, many more questions flooding into his head and taking up the space “is that new?” momentarily held. Namely, “what?” and “we’ve been together for ages, how could I have possibly overlooked something like _that?”_ and “seriously, _what??”._

But he holds his tongue and casts aside the blankets, ignoring how the cool night air nips at him, even with the flannel of his nightshirt, and pushes himself up into a sitting position. He beckons to his brother. “Well, let’s see it, then!”

Cello snorts and looks away. All too easily, the tension returns, this time tightening his jaw. _Agitated. Conflicted._

“Just a quick look?” Meringue tries conciliatorily before his brother can escape to the bathroom to finish dressing, “Since I’ll be missing your company today?”

It’s amusing to watch Cello’s resolve steadily crumble. To see all his vehement ‘noes’ transform into begrudging ‘yeses’ whose genuine enthusiasm was thinly disguised by pride or self-consciousness. Meringue knows he’s victorious the moment Cello stops glaring so intensely at the armoire as if he could make it burst into flames under his gaze and gathers up his remaining clothes and boots, all the while heaving the deepest of sighs.

The bed frame creaks a protest as his brother sits down heavily on the mattress, setting his shirt and jacket down beside him and busying himself with yanking his boots on and doing up the laces. Stubbornly keeping his eyes down. _Still conflicted. Nervous._

There’s a line drawn in the sand here. An unspoken boundary that Meringue realizes he’s toeing at and it’s for that reason that he only leans over a bit to get a better look at this not-tattoo instead of fanning his palms across it like his fingers are practically itching to do. Up close the image is... Less distinct than he was expecting. The edges of what he had assumed was carefully placed line work shaping the bark and teardrop-shaped petals – indeed the plant is in the midst of flowering beautifully - are fuzzy and crackly like it was stratums and veins of obsidian dug into the pebbly flavedo rather than…

“What is it?” he asks, furrowing his brow and trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

Cello doesn’t answer at first, as focused as he is on making sure the knot of his bootlaces is tight and secure before moving on to the other one. “Have I ever told you what a symbiont is?”

Meringue shakes his head in reply. His brother gives a musing hum as he finishes his knotting and settles back to rest his elbows on his knees, staring at the opposite wall. He looks stressed, little creases at the corners of his eyes forming and deepening. Likely, he’s considering what must be done, how soon he must leave, and, inevitably, accepting that he will delay if only because it’s Meringue that is asking that he do so.

“It’s an organism,” he begins, oddly hushed and slow, “A living thing that exists, not alone, but alongside another, different living thing. Both bound together as if they are one by what they each lack and what they overflow with. A give and take and a take and give between them so that they might survive. An ecological _pas de deux.”_

As expected, Cello’s explanation is long-winded, overtly poetic, and, above all, utterly enrapturing. It’s in these rare moments that he carries the weariness of something ancient and immovable. Something that’s seen too much and knows far more than it lets on.

So what a shame it is for Meringue to be jolted from his silent attentiveness by the unexpected, indecipherable turn of phrase that’s not at all like the familiarly unfamiliar language that mother and Cello sometimes slip into. The one that was all hard consonants ricocheting off their teeth and unfriendly vowels growling in the backs of their throats. _This_ foreign language, in comparison, seems to suit his brother’s unique lilting accent, a by-product of him having been alone and isolated for so long – _so long,_ it makes Meringue’s insides pinch in grief and anxiety whenever he thinks about it – with no one else to share words with except maybe a camel or two.

“What was that again? The last part.”

_“Pas de deux,”_ he repeats, “A dance sequence. A ballet,” his brother glances at him, “You’ve never been to a ballet, have you? It’s quite a sight to see. We should go to a performance sometime, but I digress-”

“Oh, no. Please,” Meringue insists, “ _Do_ digress.”

Cello’s breath leaves him in a huff, colored by the briefest, raspiest note of laughter that bounces off the walls and traps itself in the corners of the room, warming them. “Alright, okay…”

Meringue scoots back a bit as his brother resituates himself on the bed so they’re more facing each other and when they’re close like this – when the gentle lamplight catches Cello’s eyes, they’re not so... So dark and so terrifyingly deep that it felt like you could be swallowed up by them. His irises are brown, a rich brown. Sweet and soft like chocolate cake. Flecked with gold leaf.

“A _pas de deux_ is… Well, I suppose you could consider it to be the showstopper. The main event, as it were. There are two dancers – it’s a duet, so there must be two – and their steps, the poses, _that’s_ how they tell the story of the piece, though it’s difficult to explain the meaning of each movement if you have not seen it for yourself. But anyways, there are parts of it that they cannot perform alone. Feats that are impossible for an individual. So they _need_ each other for support, for strength, so they may do amazing things. _Pench_ _és_ and _pirouettes_ and _cambr_ _és_. Lifts!” At that, he raises his hands as though he were bearing the weight of something at about shoulder height, “Lifts are quite impressive! Acrobatic and graceful. One dancer being able to catch and hold the other seemingly effortlessly, and the one being caught having full faith that they will not fall. A mark of trust and devotion to-”

Cello’s voice, which had been steadily growing louder, more excited, stutters to a halt and he drops his hands to the bed, going a bit pinkish-orange in the face and suddenly unable to meet his younger brother’s eyes. He’s embarrassed, because _glob forbid_ anyone think he actually _likes_ things, and it makes Meringue smile a little.

“Go on,” he encourages, reaching over to touch his brother’s hand, though very quickly and briefly. Cello flinches regardless – he _always_ flinches unless he’s the initiator – but it’s nice to see that he no longer recoils from physical contact as though it were poisonous. “I’m listening.”

For some reason, his brother reddens further and makes an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat, still looking anywhere besides at Meringue. But Meringue is nothing if not patient, so he waits until Cello wrestles back control of his tongue and continues, once more hushed and slow.

“Symbionts are quite similar in that manner. Much like a pair of dancers, they come together. Maybe not as gracefully or beautifully, but still they come together. Driven by their most basic of needs and telling a story so primal, it seems woven into our very beings. But even familiar stories deserve to be told, I think. Though that’s not to say that it’s-” he pauses, seemingly struggling to find the words. “Coming together like that… Sometimes it’s beneficial. Sometimes it’s harmful. Sometimes,” His brother’s gaze _finally_ returns to him instead flicking to various points in the room, but there’s a look in his eyes… The sort of look that catches Meringue and pins him in place. “Sometimes it’s neither. Just two unlike things. Existing. Together.”

Meringue stares back, sensing – _knowing_ that there’s a deeper meaning to it all. Some truth that Cello is covering up with seemingly simple words and explanations. Something that makes him acutely aware of his breathing, his suddenly unsteady pulse, the faint thrumming in his bones -

“Regardless, whatever it is, it’s alive and it does not hurt. Unless that changes, I have opted to leave it be.”

Meringue blinks, confused until he remembers _what_ specifically they were originally talking about before that ‘what’ disappears as his brother tugs on his undershirt and the tree – the symbiont – the not-tattoo is hidden from prying eyes once more. The mattress shifts and bounces when his brother stands swiftly, pulling his jacket on in one fluid motion. It’s the olive green one, made from thick and somewhat scratchy fabric. Durable. Meant for combat. Meant for war.

“Then why put up with it?” Meringue asks, drawing one leg up to his chest and folding his arms over his knee, “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for something that isn’t doing you any favors.”

“I’m curious,” Cello tells him as he pulls his gloves from a pocket and slips them on, “I want to see what might come of it.”

“Oh?” Meringue isn’t sure why he sounds surprised. Doing something foolhardy and advised against just to see the outcome, mentally catalogue the results… Yes, that sounded a lot like his brother. “That’s… I see.”

There’s a pause, interrupted only by the soft tick-tick-ticking of the clock and the gentle creak of well-worn leather as Cello flexes his hands a few times, checking to make sure he has full range of movement.

“I quite meant the offer,” Cello says after the moment passes, turning to face him so quickly that the ends of his unbuttoned jacket briefly flutter outwards, “I think you would enjoy going to a ballet. Perhaps I will look into it when I return.”

_Evasive. Well-meaning._

As usual, his brother is dodging the intent of the question by changing the subject. Meringue hates when he does that. When he withholds information and plays everything close to the vest, but there’s not much he can do about it aside from being as patient and understanding as possible, even if he doesn’t understand at all. Even if it makes him worry.

So he’ll let it go for now. He’ll let Cello have his secrets and avoid descending into circular arguments that only led to frustration and hurt feelings, but not without asking something else from him in return.

“Don’t get hurt, all right?”

Cello tilts his head, harsh shadows again turning his eyes deep and dark and almost impossible for Meringue to read beyond the feeling of being meticulously scrutinized, like he was a puzzle his brother couldn’t quite piece together. Perhaps he should say something more. Give a proper ‘see you soon’…

Or perhaps not. Already Cello has taken a step closer, resting his hand on Meringue’s knee – the one not pressed into his own sternum – and leaning over to bump their foreheads together. _Reassuring. Affectionate._

It’s sweet, really. Sweet that his brother has grown less anxious and cagey over small displays of fondness, if only behind closed doors, and Meringue relishes the gesture and the comfort it brings.

“I should be back by the evening,” Cello murmurs and all too quickly that small connection, the warmth it bears and shares between them, is broken. Meringue blinks owlishly at his brother as he retreats a few steps, tugs on the cuff of his glove one last time, and flashes a playful grin at him.

“Don’t wait up for me, _Meri-chen._ ”

And with that, his brother departs, lingering in their home just long enough to retrieve his sword from his study (somehow it always ended up there instead of hanging neatly in its designated spot in the workshop). Meringue breathes a sigh once he hears the front door creak open and click shut and flops back onto the now too cold bed to try and sleep through what’s left of the now too lonely night without even his brother’s promise of his continued safety and well-being to keep him company.

He rolls onto his side and tugs some of the blankets back over his shoulders in a futile attempt to not wait up for Cello like his brother requested.

As if he has a choice.

\---------------------

Cello returns the next evening just as he said he would and Meringue is grateful. Both for his brother keeping his word and also because Cello doesn’t stumble or limp or cross the threshold of the entryway bearing hastily wrapped bandages. He’s still a little bruised and battered from whatever it was mother asked of him, but mostly he just looks tired and hungry.

That was fortunate – not that his brother had been run ragged, but his arrival time – because Meringue was just finishing up dinner preparations, though he did have to shoo Cello away from sneaking bites from the _mise en place_ (as his brother calls it) and order him to go clean himself up and change into something not covered in grime and dirt before eating.

Dinner itself is quiet with Meringue chattering as much as he can to fill the silence as his brother seems more focused on the food than anything else. He tells Cello about his day, how he’s had to reinforce the tomato stakes and cages _again_ for how large and healthy the plants are growing, that he’s halfway through his current novel of choice and it’s quite nerve-wracking, but enjoyable and he’ll have to ask Turtle Princess to recommend another thriller once he’s finished with this one, and, oh, how did things go for you today?

“Well,” Cello assures him between mouthfuls, eating voraciously, and Meringue almost teases him about his appetite before remembering that his brother didn’t have breakfast and probably skipped lunch too.

He makes sure Cello has seconds.

Even better – though certainly not better than his brother being home, safe and sound – that Cello retires to bed early, saving Meringue the hassle of attempting to persuade him not to stay up until the wee hours of the morning filling out paperwork or editing one of his architecture drafts as he was wont to do if left to his own devices. Indeed, sleep comes easier and is far more restful with them together, despite his brother’s occasional snoring that Meringue has to put a stop to with an elbow to the ribs or a heel to a kidney, and by the next morning, everything, blessedly, returns to normalcy.

But the tickets… The tickets appear days later, very purposefully placed next to the calendar with the associated date circled and the performance time neatly penned in, though Cello says nothing about them once Meringue spots them.

The ballet is, of course, wonderful.

\----------------

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Definitions:
> 
> Inquiline – An animal that lives commensally in the living space of another animal of a different species.
> 
> Adagio – A slow tempo.
> 
> Pas de deux – (French) “Step of two.” A dance between two individuals that perform ballet steps together.
> 
> Mise en place – (French) “Everything in its place.” Preparing, organizing, and arranging ingredients prior to cooking.
> 
> -chen – A German diminutive suffix. When added to the end of applicable words, it transforms the root word into being “cute” and “small”, such as Liebchen (“darling”) or Bärchen (“little bear”). These sorts of words can be used as terms of endearment.


End file.
